


Dogged

by mitzvahmelting



Series: matchjokes [4]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Dubcon Kissing, Gender Issues, Identity Porn, Lack of Communication, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Power Dynamics, it's identity porn but no secret identities
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-10
Updated: 2016-06-10
Packaged: 2018-07-14 05:03:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7154678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mitzvahmelting/pseuds/mitzvahmelting
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Joker's relationship with Matches unravels.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Oh man, I'm pretty proud of this one. It's been a long time coming. 
> 
> I'm splitting it into two chapters, but the second chapter is already written and should be posted within the next couple days.
> 
> Thank you, as usual, to [DracoMaleficium](http://archiveofourown.org/users/DracoMaleficium/pseuds/DracoMaleficium), who was the sounding board for like 90% of the content of this story and was so helpful and supportive throughout!!

Joker spends nearly a month straight inside Malone’s apartment, caged by stucco walls and three hundred square feet of grimy carpet.

After all, there’s no need for him to leave; Matches goes out daily to work on his arson schemes and he doesn’t mind running Joker’s errands on the side. The mobster gladly retrieves hidden caches of green and purple wardrobe, and fulfills Joker’s painstakingly brand-specific grocery lists. 

So Joker remains inside.  He passes the time acquainting himself with Malone’s laptop - a business-style Dell machine that has to be at least six years old.  Joker’s computer skills aren’t quite up to par after spending so much of the digital age bouncing in and out of Arkham, and it can be intensely frustrating when the machine turns off without warning, or the screen freezes, and Joker has no recourse besides hitting it Fonzie-style and hoping for the best.  Still, when everything is functional, Joker entertains himself with Minesweeper and Solitaire whilst, in the background, the television catches him up on the Gotham gossip he’d missed. 

He spends long stretches alone, lying backwards on the mattress with his head lolling off the edge, watching television upside down. Then he spends time with Matches. They concoct new fire accelerants together, and make love in the mid-afternoon, and discuss the merits of pistachio ice cream.

Mostly the sex, though. That’s probably why Joker is so comfortable spending days and days like this, lounging alone with the taste of Matches lingering in his mouth.

Joker spends one afternoon with a roll of masking tape he nicked from Malone’s stuff, crumpling the tape into a little ball and lying on his back on the bed, launching the tape-balls at the popcorn ceiling and trying to get them to stick. It really is quite fun, until Matches comes home and sighs exasperatedly, “We’re gonna have to get you _out_ more.”

“Says who, Scooby Doo? I’m having the time of my life right here.”  It seems to work best when he flicks it with his forefinger – gets enough momentum to stick hard and not fall off within the crucial next few seconds.

“What do you even _do_ all day?” asks Matches, sitting on the edge of the bed and hanging his sunglasses on his shirt pocket before reaching out for Joker’s knee.  Joker obliges and lowers his leg, so Matches can rub circles absentmindedly into the clown’s ankle while tufts of masking tape rain down around them.

“Oh, you know. Sit around, wait for you to come home.” Flick. This one loses speed and arcs before it gets the chance to hit the ceiling. It lands somewhere by the headboard.

“That ain’t healthy.”

He purses his lips and pauses his tape-ball construction, “See, Matches, this is why you don’t feed stray pups. They just follow you home and mooch off your food till you get sick of them.”

“Oh, baby, no…” Matches pouts and his palm slides up to stroke Joker’s calf, “I like that you’re here.  But you don’ have to be here _all_ the time.  Don’t you wanna spend time outside?”

“What for? I have everything I could possibly need, right here. A toilet, a bed, a roll of masking tape.  A handsome fellow who brings me my meals and touches me in my private places.” A coy glance at Matches, “It’s like a stay at Arkham. Except that last bit is far more fun with you.”

“Hey,” says Matches.  His fingers stop stroking Joker’s ankle, just holding. “I’m serious.”

“Nice to meet you, Serious.” Joker puts on his widest grin, the smile reserved for those few times he takes over every television signal in Gotham and broadcasts his face into people’s homes. “I’m the Joker.”

Joker is about to laugh at his own joke, because, of course, it’s _funny_ (or at least it was funny watching the growing dread pass over the other man’s face as he waited for Joker’s punchline) _,_ but the sound dies in his throat when Malone’s hand grabs him by the jaw and drags him up into a sitting position – the pressure behind Malone’s fingers is significant, so much so that it is difficult for Joker to pull his skin into a smile.  Malone’s face is some cross between aggressive and inquisitive.  The man asks, softly, “Are you tryin’ to bait me?”

“Oh, is Serious not your real name? Do forgive me – you do change your name so often these days,” Joker snickers.

At first, it seems like Matches is angry, like Joker has been swinging a red cloth in front of his face for the last five minutes and finally the bull is grunting and digging its hoof into the ground.  Then, Joker looks into his eyes.  Blue, clear, pensive. Unclouded by rage. Asking, not demanding, as he repeats, _“Are you tryin’ to bait me?”_ The contradiction between Malone’s eyes and the grip of his thumb makes Joker’s head swim a bit. 

“Uhh… no,” Joker finally manages to reply.

“Why were you tryin’ to bait me?  I thought we were past this.”

“How… how was I trying to bait you?”

“You know me, kid, you know the things that bug me. And you do them anyway.”  Malone’s breath is cool, like maybe he just chewed a mint or something. Maybe in preparing to come home, maybe he was ready to kiss Joker. Wouldn’t that be nice?  Shame he’s so upset – thoughtful and upset.

How to assuage Malone’s anger so that they can skip to the kissing? Joker frowns. “Is this because of the tape? Are you mad that I stole your tape?”

“What?” That makes the mobster’s grip loosen slightly, and now Joker doesn’t have to strain to open his mouth.

“Or are you jealous?” asks Joker, “Are you jealous that I’ve been playing with the tape? Because we can play with the tape together. I have a whole tape ball ready, do you want it?”

Matches shakes his head slightly, “It’s not about the tape-”

“Here you go,” says Joker, and he doesn’t break eye contact with Matches as he lifts the tape ball and affixes it to the other man’s forehead. “Boop.”

For a moment, Matches looks lost, and then the absurdity of the situation catches up with him, and he shuts his eyes and shakes his head (making the tape fall off of him in the process and careen down his cheek and onto Joker’s foot) and he says, faintly, with a smile, “…dear Lord…”  He lets go of Joker’s chin.

At this point, clapping a hand on Joker’s knee in _adieu_ , Matches stands up off the bed and begins to undress, presumably because he’s going to shower, as he usually does after he comes home from his daily illicit activities.  “I’m gonna take you out, okay?”  It seems the man is talking to himself, so Joker watches him undress and fidgets with the tape wad thoughtfully.  “This Thursday, I’ll take you to the Iceberg Lounge. A real dinner, with fancy clothes.”

“Fancy clothes?” Joker frowns in almost-mock concern. “I don’t have any fancy clothes.”

“I’ll get you something tomorrow when I hit _Killinger’s._   What do you wanna wear?”  At the silence that follows, Matches turns around, and Joker meets his eyes with the most bemused expression he can manage.  Matches frowns. “What?”

“I…”

“Yeah?”

“…can wear…”

“Oh no.”

 “… _anything_ I want?” A devious grin erupts on Joker’s face.

“I can see where this is going.” Matches wraps a towel around his waist for modesty, “And yes, okay, yes, anything you want. I’ll grab something leggy, and some heels. The works.”

Joker smirks at him affectionately.  “You aren’t worried I’ll attract too much attention?”

Matches snorts, “In the Gotham crowd? You’ll fit right in, you know that. That said, you gotta use subtler makeup. I’ll pick that up, too.” He then makes his way towards the bathroom to shower, but stops when Joker makes grabby hands in his direction.

Pleased, Joker pulls Matches between his knees and grins up at the mobster. Even living together, it isn’t often that he sees Matches shirtless, and it’s a treat to catch him here, touch him.  The scars of his torso leave patches in his chest hair – Joker doesn’t mind, he likes the differences in texture, the way he can see he-who-must-not-be-named written into Malone’s skin so evidently.  Out loud, however, with fingers pressed against the hairless scar tissue, Joker murmurs, “I wish you wouldn’t hang out with those Mafia dogs. They’ve given you mange.”

Malone rolls his eyes. “Mob, not Mafia. And would you _quit_ pokin’ fun at me?”  He sighs, and tilts his head as he looks down at Joker, muttering, “I really don’t wanna get angry with you right now. Let me wash up.”

But Joker’s got his hands on Malone’s waist, pulling him even closer to the bed. “Just let me-” and then he’s got his mouth there, licking with the flat of his tongue a long, slow stripe up from the man’s navel to the base of his sternum.  At the taste and texture, Joker’s stomach tightens. So intimate, so unique, so lovely and acrid and pungent and _Matches._ Joker hums his approval.

The man sighs, “So, it’s you, me, and the Mob. All canines in disguise.”

“Different breeds,” chimes Joker.

“I can’t believe you just _licked_ me.”

“It’s a dog-lick-dog world, honey.”

For a brief moment, before heading directly into the bathroom, before Joker’s laughter echoes through the apartment, Matches stares down at Joker with a fondness so thorough it seems to leech out of the near-naked mobster through his pores.

 

When they arrive at the Iceberg Lounge, Joker remembers that he hasn’t worn heels in ages, and he probably should have practiced with them, rather than let Matches carry him bridal-style down to the cab (though, it _was_ fun to be carried).  His knees wobble slightly upon exiting the vehicle, and the point of the left shoe catches in the sidewalk crack, and his palm slams down instinctively on the roof of the cab to steady himself.  He manages to not fall, but the cab driver takes the sound to mean _get a move on,_ and it’s only thanks to Malone’s gentlemanly gesture of extending his elbow for his date that Joker doesn’t tumble down the street with the fleeing cab.

Malone is smirking at him, as they walk together to the entrance, Joker clinging to Malone’s arm. “I’m gonna warn you up front, baby,” a flicker of tongue around the matchstick, “I’m not gonna have any patience for no complaining about the shoes. You asked for them.”

Joker grins for show, to make himself look unbothered. “No, no, it’s the price I pay for _fashion._ I won’t complain.”

The waitress seats them at a small table by the edge of the penguin habitat, and Joker is careful to smooth down the back of the dress before sitting.  Meanwhile, the tuxedos of the wait staff are mixing with the tuxedos of the penguins in Joker’s head.  He’s going to crack a funny about the wait staff ‘waddling’, but then he opens his menu and sees the prices.  “I admit, I haven’t been here since before Cobblepot grew into his flippers, but…” he mutters to Matches, “this seems like robbery.”

Matches shrugs, “The longer Ozzie goes without the rogues showin’ up, the better the reputation of his establishment, and the more he can charge for his fish.  Besides, the prices ain’t that outrageous, considerin’ you’re also payin’ for the atmosphere.”

“How come he let us in, if he’s so worried about rogues?”

“Ozzie has a _special_ arrangement with Matches Malone, if you catch my meaning.  And as for you…” Matches closes his menu and leans across the table to speak conspiratorially to Joker, “In that dress, baby, nobody’s lookin’ at your _face._ ”

Matches pulls away and opens his menu again, and when Joker’s head stops spinning with the giddy feelings, he does the same.  Of course, he knows that the other part of the _you’re too hot to be recognized_ plan is the rubber wig cap and plastic auburn hair under which his scalp is currently sweating, but he doesn’t mention that, instead letting Malone’s praise sink in.  He pitches his voice up, to sound enthusiastic, and to share in Malone’s conspiratorial tone. “Should I order something obscenely expensive? I think I should, I think I should,” Joker muses aloud, “as long as my sugar daddy is footing the bill.”

When Joker winks, Matches is looking at the menu and misses it.  “Order whatever you want,” he says with a permissive wave of his hand.

“What about _lobster_ , can I order lobster?  If it says ‘Market Price,’ that means it’s more fancy.”

“Yeah,” Matches says flippantly.  Then he makes a face, as if he’s just remembered something crucially important, and puts down his menu. “Hold on, aren’t you allergic to shellfish?”

“What?” Joker makes a show of being offended, splaying fingers on his chest in shock. “Lies! Slander!”

Matches points an accusing finger at him, “Yes, you are! Two years ago, you were pulling your ‘madman’ shtick all around Gotham and the only reason they caught you was ‘cause you tried lobster bisque and went into anaphylactic shock!  You went straight from Gotham General to Arkham!”

Joker makes an indignant face.  “Oh, yeah?” he raises his voice, almost loud enough to attract attention, “Well, what do _you_ know, Mr. Matches Malone? You weren’t even _there!”_ (Of course, Batman was there, but that’s hardly an excuse considering how Batman and Matches are such vastly different people.)

“’Cause Two-Face’s goons wouldn’t stop talking about it for months,” Matches replies without missing a beat.

Joker watches his face for a tell, for the lie to come through, but Matches just seems self-satisfied.  Joker pouts.  Matches leans back in his chair again. “Well, that was-” says Joker, “that was a chain restaurant, that was fast food.  So maybe I’m not allergic to shellfish, maybe I’m just allergic to poor people food.” His pout turns into a grin, “Which means you’ve got to treat me to all these fancy dinners for the rest of my life!”

“You liar,” Matches smirks (pot, kettle), “If you’re so allergic to fast food, then how come you keep calling me in the middle of my work asking for McDonald’s?”

“I’m building up a tolerance.”

Matches rolls his eyes.  “Yeah, babe, that’s you: shamrock shakes and epi-pens.”

The other diners are politely minding their own business. They seem to be the usual crowd – ambitious underworld _hidalgos_ with pretty women on their arms mixing genially with some respectable though gullible Gothamites who think this is just a nice place to go out to dinner.  A couple from the latter group are seated at the next table.  Two bushy-tailed young heterosexuals on a fancy date, the woman Joker recognizes from one of the local news networks.  For a moment he thinks she’s a journalist, and he supposes that an inquiring mind like hers might recognize The Joker sitting here in his fancy dress and high heels.  He isn’t as alarmed as Matches might be, more intrigued by the prospect of being recognized than anything else.  But then it occurs to him that no, she’s not a journalist, she’s the weather lady, and the early stages of his standing-on-the-table _“Yes, ladies and gentlemen, it is I: the Joker!”_ fantasy dissipate with the fleeting notes of quiet piano music.

Weather Lady is here with a young man sporting a forgettably handsome face; they seem to be discussing members of each other’s family with mixed degrees of affection, as well as apartments, and dog breeds, and… and apparently Joker himself, if the hastily covered “she looks like a _ghost_ ” is anything to go by.

Matches is still looking at the menu. Joker leans across the table to whisper, “I _told_ you I should have gone with the darker eyeshadow – now they think I look washed out.”

Matches raises an eyebrow but doesn’t look at Joker as he whispers back “Who does?”

“People. People do. They’re all talking about how pasty I look.” He pouts (half because he feels frustrated, half just for effect). “Should’ve gone with the darker lipstick, too.”

“Baby,” Matches drops the menu and reaches over to cup Joker’s cheek, “your skin is basically pigment-less.  No amount of make-up is gonna change that.”

“But I-”

“Let it go.”

The pout turns even sourer. Joker wonders if his face will get stuck like this.

Then, abruptly, Weather Lady squeals. She’s quite loud in her enthusiasm, and the other patrons glance towards her table, Joker among them.

Mr. Forgettable is kneeling on the floor, and he has procured a gift box from his jacket pocket. He seems flustered and bashful about the whole exchange, but eager for her to open the box. It must be jewelry. At the tables closest to the girl, Joker and the others peer curiously at the box, and conversation lulls.

“I know you said you didn’t want a ring, but I…” Mr. Forgettable trails off, blushing fiercely.

The cover of the box comes off, and another squeal erupts from Weather Lady.  It’s a bracelet.  Seems like silver, with amethyst and peridot stones in delicate alignment, and those are _Joker’s_ colors. Those are his _colors._

So he asks her to marry him, and she says yes, and the other patrons clap politely and Joker’s still staring at that bracelet. Where can he get one? Doesn’t he deserve one? It’s his _colors._ His his his his his.

But the waitress arrives and asks Joker for his order, and Joker’s sudden jolt of possessiveness settles, and his attention turns back to seafood.  He enthusiastically orders the lobster, then listens to Matches order with squinted eyes.  “Come on Matches, just _salmon?_   That’s like… the _cheeseburger_ of seafood. Learn to live a little!”

“We’re switching as soon as the food comes.”

“If you wanted lobster, you should have ordered-”

“It’s not that I _want_ to eat lobster, it’s that you _can’t._ ”

Joker’s elbows slam down on the table as he clasps his hands pleadingly, “Oh, _please,_ let me have it! Just this once! You have medical training; it’s _fine._ ”

Matches gapes at him the way a salmon might. “Do you have a death wish?”

At first Joker is going to respond with a quip, but the question sinks in just before his voice can escape, and then he’s staring at Matches with no words coming out. _Do you have a death wish?_ Is there a joke to be made about this? “Depends on the day,” he finally settles on, and then a quickly amended, “Depends on whose death we’re talking about, sugar.”

 

The first thing Joker notices is the color.

It’s like Snow White’s apple, or a rubber nose, or a harlequin’s costume.  It’s like someone grabbed God’s color palette and stole ‘red’ right off of it, like Prometheus with fire. Vibrant, vital, vicious, and virile.

As the waitress puts it in front of Joker like he’s the one meant to consume this beast, he’s questioning whether he has the stomach for it: the little spindly legs, the claws, the antennae.

Matches switches their plates carefully, cuffs rolled up so as to not accidentally get garlic sauce on his sleeves. Joker licks his lips in thought, then says, “That looks incredible,” even as the crustacean is taken away from him.

“You ever seen anyone eat lobster?”

“Not in recent memory.  I think this calls for a demonstration.”

Malone’s skin reflects the red slightly, turning his chin pink. He finishes relocating the other associated instruments, like the bowl of lemon water and the napkin and the nutcracker and the thin, metal lobster pick. “It’s pretty gross,” he warns.

Joker laughs and crosses his legs underneath the table, as one does wearing a dress.

The legs.  Matches takes each leg one by one between his fingers, twists them with sharp precision so they separate from the body of the lobster.  He speaks quietly to Joker as he does so.  “Many people will suck on the legs individually to get out the juice and meat, but…” he brandishes the lobster pick, “in a fine restaurant that’s discouraged, you know? Here you’re s’posed to get all the meat out of the lobster first, then wash your hands, and _then_ eat. So no suckin’ allowed.”

Joker can’t take his eyes away, the lobster is so red, like KitKat bars and sports teams and ruby slippers and oxygenated blood. It catches his gaze and holds it, sticky with interest, as his own dining utensils remain unused on the sides of his untouched salmon dish.  Something is scraping at the back of Joker’s mind – he lets it itch him the way a human scratches a cat, it makes him purr and stare more longingly at the lobster. Matches has moved to twisting the arms off the body, and then, after salvaging the meat from the joints, he settles the nutcracker around the widest part of the claw. _Crack._ Like someone falling through the floorboards.

The soft, pink flesh slips gently from the shell of the claw almost fully intact. _Scratch scratch_ it goes on the back of Joker’s mind.

There’s something primal about Matches, as his speech trickles to a stop and his focus turns to the red. His matchstick is hanging precariously off his lip, stuck only by his saliva. _Crack_ is the next claw. The meat doesn’t slide out intact, tender enough to tear with the force of Malone’s tugging, revealing smooth tendrils of muscle flowering beneath his gaze like a carnation, slimy texture like his tongue sticking out of his mouth in concentration.

Joker’s mouth waters. Matches has one hand braced on the back of the lobster and places his other hand on the tail, close to the junction between them.  He glances up at Joker for just a half second, then back to the beast, and Joker holds his breath.  Twist. _Snapsnapsnapsnap_ the sound of muscles and shell tearing.  Red.  The green gunk from the lobster’s liver spluttering out onto the plate.

Red. Soft pink underneath.  Matches takes the sharpest knife and runs it straight through the shell of the tail, then separates the two sides and reveals the thick, wide, white slab of muscle, strings of ligament tearing as the shell is pulled away. It is… erotic. Joker shifts the skirt of the dress and tries to keep his mouth closed.  He looks instead at the face of the beast, the antennae, the beady black eyes, dead. Red. Red.

Red like hearts and diamonds and Wonderland’s Queen, like capes and Riding Hoods and helmets and-

Oh, yes.

“I’m starting to think it was something else in that soup,” Joker admits, not quite able to focus on any object at their table, staring through the table, to red red crawfish and red red hoods.

“Hmm? What soup, baby?”

“The soup that I was allergic to. I don’t think it was the lobster, I think it must have been something else because I’m pretty sure I’m not allergic to shellfish.”  He licks his lips. “I’m pretty sure I’ve eaten crawfish before.”

Matches frowns.  “Crayfish? They don’t serve crayfish this far north.”

It all comes back. “They served them at the Boon Dock bar here in Gotham.”

“That dive closed down almost a decade ago.”

“They served them in these…” Joker swallows, his hands coming up to the sides of his salmon plate and up to indicate size, and he tries to ignore the way his fingers are curling uselessly in the air. “These big bowls, full of them. Everyone shared this big bowl of crawfish.”

Matches sets down his utensils and wipes a hand on his napkin, frown deepening, and pulls Joker’s hand down out of the air, saying softly, “Boy… how long ago was this?”

“I don’t know.”  He really doesn’t. They’re these images in his head, of buckets of red shelled creatures that look just like the lobster, buckets of them, and a bucket for his head. The Red Hood.  Beyond that, though… Joker’s mind isn’t being very agreeable today.  He’ll have to settle for this gut certainty that he’s not allergic.

“’Cause, you know, kid, they run tests.” Matches says, still holding Joker’s hand, running his thumb in circles on Joker’s palm. “When you go to the hospital after an allergic reaction, they run tests. Tests that say, for sure, that you _are_ allergic to shellfish.  It doesn’t make sense that you’d have eaten crayfish without, you know. Dyin’, probably.”

Joker shuts his eyes for a moment.  “Are you saying my memory is wrong?”

“I’m just sayin’ what I know.”

When he opens his eyes, Joker grins at Matches and says “Only one way to find out.”

“No.”

“Come on, big guy. Just a tiny little piece.  Can I have the thumb? The thumb just looks so… mouthwatering.”

“No.” His hands push Joker’s wandering fingers away. “Kid, don’t you see how stupid this is? We can get you tested again, there’s no point in puttin’ your life on the line just to taste some mediocre seafood.” 

“Mediocre? I would think Matches Malone should be impressed with this fine establishment!” Joker teases, hysteria tinging the edges of his speech, “Isn’t the lobster dish here the _finest_ plate in Gotham?”

“Yes, well,” Matches hums, and then he’s batting away Joker’s utensils as the clown tries to stab a piece of lobster meat.

The mania is settling pleasantly into Joker’s head and jump-starting his heart rate.  His prize – the jiggling pink little fleshy pieces sitting right there defenseless on Malone’s plate.  He can smell them from his side of the table, saltwater breeze and garlic and citrus.  The pointy thumb is the reddest part, saluting him from the top of the mound.  Joker lunges for it with his fork.

The mobster locks his hands around both of Joker’s wrists and Joker can’t move.  “Don’t do this, baby,” Matches pleads, and yet somehow still manages to sound patronizing, as usual, “People are startin’ to stare.”  He’s not wrong, even happily-engaged Weather Lady and Mr. Forgettable have overcome their fog of merriment to take notice of the argument.

“Darling.” Joker is smiling, but he pushes the words out past his teeth like a growl, and he stills his hands, and the combination garners Malone’s attention and silence.  He speaks unhurriedly now, with a low, dark tone. “Darling, my memory isn’t what it used to be.  I have a hard time remembering anything from before the big bad Bat came into my life. Contradictory stories. I’m left with this, uh, messy amalgam of other people’s lives where mine ought to be.” He meets Malone’s eyes and stares him down, the background noise of his mind dimming to nothing as Joker settles on one singular, actionable goal.

It feels good. This is what it feels like when he has the Bat cornered. It sends a chill through Joker, from his neck to his shoulders to his chest to his stomach to his cock to his knees, he’s _awake,_ and focused, and present, and predatory.  After months wading through the hazy fog of depression and Minesweeper and takeout meals, it’s like a sudden rebirth of sensation.

 “Now,” he says to Matches, “at this moment, I have just remembered something _very_ clearly, and I have the opportunity to test this memory empirically. So, baby, if you have a problem with me making use of this opportunity,” Joker’s snarl is kept in check only by their surroundings and the dress; he doesn’t want to cause a scene, “you can go to hell.”

But Matches still has his hands on Joker’s wrists.  In fact, Matches seems completely unfazed, which rekindles this sour resentment in Joker’s stomach that has been growing and receding and growing again for _weeks._   “You ain’t thinkin’ clearly,” says Matches.

“As a matter of fact, Matches, I _am._ ”

“Listen to me-”

“I’m _listening.”_

“You have to approach this rationally-”

Joker’s hand jerks but he can’t break Malone’s hold. “Fuck you.”

“Does it really make sense to put our whole evenin’ at risk on the _off chance_ that you _might_ not be allergic to shellfish? Is that your plan? Is this really that important?”

“You _know_ why it’s important.”

“But you _are_ allergic. You tried seafood before and you had to go to the hospital.  I don’t even know what it is that you expect to happen; you’re just goin’ to get sick again.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I _do_ know that, kid, and so would you if you would just _think_ for a minute!”

“I remember the crawfish as clearly as I remember anything else.”

“Your memory is playin’ tricks on you.  You have to let it go.”

“Let me _go.”_ Joker tugs his hands away but Matches holds on doggedly.  Joker bares his teeth. “I’ll just have one piece and then you’ll _see._ ”

“Just calm down-”

A nasally voice interrupts, “Is there a problem, _madame?_ “ Oswald Cobblepot is standing there, with his little cane and his little monocle.  Evidently, the entire room has become audience to their… lover’s quarrel, and here is old Penguin, completely taken by their disguises, fully convinced that Joker is a woman. It almost shocks Joker out of his anger.  It almost makes him laugh.

The other thing worth laughing about is that Penguin, who is all of 4’2” and as fat as his namesake, seems to be offering to _protect_ Joker from Matches.  Matches seems to have noticed that, too, and while his hands are still holding Joker’s wrists in place, his eyes are staring wide at Penguin like the man is a sideshow attraction.  (Joker knows from experience that Cobblepot _hates_ being looked at that way.)

Joker takes the opportunity to stomp on Malone’s foot with the heel of his shoe and Malone makes a satisfying squeak in response.  But he doesn’t let go of Joker’s wrists. Because somewhere deep inside Matches is the muscle-memory of holding Joker’s wrists for actual life-or-death reasons.

Matches tries to flash a reassuring smile at Penguin but it falls into more of a grimace. “Back off, Ozzie; everythin’ is under control.”

Penguin steps closer, “Sir, you need to let go, you are causing a _scene.”_

With a bit of a snarl, Matches turns from Penguin to look Joker in the eyes, still gripping Joker’s wrists.  “You’re not gonna do it if I let go,” he tells Joker, his voice low and fast, “you’re not gonna do it, alright?” And quieter, so the rest of the diners can’t overhear, “We’ll go dancing, okay? We’re gonna go dancing, baby, but we can’t do that if you get sick.”

“I won’t get sick-”

“Enough. Fine. Whether you get sick or not. We won’t go dancing unless you promise me you’re gonna leave it be.  You wanna go out tonight, don’t you?”

They stare each other down for a few seconds. 

The urgency recedes.

Resentfully, Joker nods.

Matches lets go, and keeps his hands in the air by Joker’s wrists for a moment in case Joker makes a sudden play for the lobster.  He doesn’t.

Penguin adjusts his monocle. Joker, seething, adjusts the placement of his napkin in his lap and his fingers run across the hem of the skirt. “Everything is fine,” he says, delicately enough to maintain the illusion of femininity.

 

They make it through the dinner.  Joker feels like a dog watching its master eat chocolate.  For his part, Matches doesn’t comment any more about how the lobster meat tastes.  But he still eats it, and the sexuality of watching Matches taste and devour each slick, pink morsel has been undercut in Joker’s mind with frustration, humiliation, and betrayal.

On the way out, Joker trips over his shoes and nearly tumbles to the floor in front of everyone.  Weather Lady catches him, and for a good eight-tenths of a second her bracelet is dangling obnoxiously in his face like Tantalus’ grapevine. He apologizes, ladylike as possible, and tries to avoid her eyes as he pushes past and towards the front exit of the restaurant, Matches following close behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The memory of the crawfish is a reference to [this flashback in The Killing Joke.](http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-fZwGgVwuvYg/Vs0QbsyHTNI/AAAAAAAACZg/6thM9Ux-XHs/s0-Ic42/RCO021.jpg)
> 
> Please comment with what you thought! Your readership means so much to me!
> 
> PS: if you haven't seen it yet, there's a new illustration for Pissing Cherubs, so go back and check that out when you get the chance :)


	2. Chapter 2

Perhaps Matches felt guilty, wanted to make it up to Joker.

They catch a cab after leaving the restaurant (Joker didn’t see the bill; Matches made a point to obscure the sum total, probably less because he was being secretive and more because it’s just the polite thing to do). The salmon was fine, but Joker probably would have enjoyed it more had it not felt so much like an undeserved punishment.

Perhaps Matches felt guilty for the tone of their dinner and that’s why he’s pulled Joker into his lap.  The cab driver is ignoring them, the partition is mostly up except for an inch or so of space by the felt ceiling of the car. 

Matches has a hand between Joker’s legs, his chest warm against Joker’s cold shoulders where the dress doesn’t cover.  The man’s other hand takes Joker’s and interlaces their fingers.  “You listened,” Matches breathes against Joker’s cheek.  “I’m so glad you listened.”

“Oh yeah?” Joker mutters even as Malone’s hand cups him through satin underthings.  “You’re glad? I’m not glad.”

“Sure you are.” The scruff of Malone’s chin scrapes against Joker’s neck.  “’Cause now we get to go out and have a nice time.”  He punctuates the sentence with a loving squeeze and Joker’s heels knock against the floor as his back arches involuntarily.   The cab driver isn’t looking.  Malone’s breath is so hot.

Joker bites his lip and tries to keep his hips still, then mumbles an annoyed “Quit touching me.”

Matches chuckles and nuzzles the auburn hair. “You _like_ it,” he teases.

The worst part is, it’s true. Joker can’t help that the mystery movements of Malone’s hand unseen underneath the fabric of the dress make him feel hot in his stomach, make him hard.  Malone has him on a string, and he hates it, and he loves it, and he hates it, and all he wants is more.

Or. Or for it to go away? He can’t make sense of it.  Joker’s present is almost as much of a mystery to him as his past.

It’s around then that Malone kisses him. It takes a bit of maneuvering at first, for Joker to turn around in Malone’s lap and straddle him, but then when he meets his lips it’s smooth, and wet, and hot, and Malone makes these hungry sounds low in his throat as the kiss deepens and Joker can feel those sounds through Malone’s tongue and-

Oh.

Because Matches had eaten the lobster, and now Matches is kissing Joker, and cross-contamination and-

His lips are tingling, and his tongue feels thick, and his throat… it doesn’t close up or anything, it’s not like he’s dying, it’s just… enough for him to feel and notice and _know._ Matches moves on to kissing Joker’s neck and, secretly relieved, Joker hides his face against the man’s shoulder.  He swallows against the thickness in his throat and shuts his eyes.

But the crawfish, but the _crawfish._

As another possible memory slips away from Joker, his eyes burn and the scent of Malone’s cologne only makes it worse. He wants to cry. He wants to shout and tug on Malone’s jacket and throw a fit.  What if he had tasted the lobster?  Sirens and hospital nurses and fake names and Malone’s patronizing _I told you so._  A single thread pulled and pulled by Malone’s deft fingers unravelling memories that had been patched together piecemeal over so many years.  Malone would stare at him with pity _I know how upset and scared you must feel, to not be able to trust your own mind like that, but that’s okay, you can trust me._ Devil. Devil in a man’s skin.

Malone’s fingertips grip his ass, and Joker keens forward and ruts against Malone’s abdomen, the dress hiking up around his hips.  He groans against Malone’s shoulder, half aroused, half out of his mind with despair.

Matches doesn’t need to know he was right. 

 

_Boomboomboomboom_ goes the subwoofer. The music is so loud that it sticks behind Joker’s cheekbones and throbs, and when the purple-cyan lights go _swoosh_ on their pivots and shine into Joker’s eyes, he squints at them, squishes his whole face which puts more pressure on his cheeks, thumping, aching. The point of his high heels skates across the seams between the floorboards, and he can feel it.  He can feel everything. Except, perhaps, his toes, which may be turning blue.

They are moving in a diagonal line across the dance floor, point A being the entrance of the club, point B being the section of tables and the long booth lining the corner wall on the far side of this mess of sweating, gyrating bodies.  They are cutting directly across, not lingering among the crowd of dancers. But the going is slow, in these heels, and with Matches using the cover of the dancers to grope at Joker’s body and mouth obscenely at his neck.  The man is insatiable.

_Boomboom_ the subwoofer. _Swoosh-swoosh_ the lights.  When the seas part and Joker finally lands knees-first on the cushioned seat of the edge of the booth, he’s more relieved than he expected to feel. Malone’s hands sneak around to his stomach to hold him from behind, and the mobster asks loud enough to be heard, “You feelin’ alright?”

“Like I’m gonna vomit all over your tie.”

“Hah.” Matches nuzzles closer and plants a kiss by Joker’s ear. “D’you wanna go home? Only came out here so you could have a good time; if you wanna go that’s fine.”

“Oh, shove it.  Just give me some breathing room, I’ll be fine.”  Joker’s tone is some mix between affectionate and irate, but he doesn’t fully commit to either.

Still, Matches takes it in stride.  Another possessive thumb-stroke over Joker’s stomach and he backs away.  “I’m going to go catch up with some of those dogs you hate, alright?”

Joker laughs once and turns to seat himself in the booth, shutting his eyes and leaning his head back against the cushion. “No more mange; keep your coat clean.”

“Always. I’ll grab you a ginger ale? It’ll help the nausea.”

“Nuh-uh. No soda. Get me a frou-frou drink with something fancy sticking out of it.”

“Got it, princess.”

When Matches leaves, Joker keeps his eyes closed. It dampens the _swoosh_ of the lights and abates his headache a bit.

_Princess._ So, that’s a new pet-name. So far, each ‘baby,’ ‘boy,’ and ‘kid,’ have sunk Joker deeper and deeper into dependence like cheese luring a mouse. This one, though.  While wearing this dress? It hits way lower than the others, desire and revulsion building up in equal measure in the sockets of his hip bones.

He remembers belatedly to push his knees together, and glances around at the dancers and patrons to see if he’d inadvertently given anyone a free show. His stomach twists again when he sees one man eyeing him thoughtfully from one of the freestanding tables further from the booth. Sightlines would have allowed him to see right up Joker’s dress.  _I should kill him,_ Joker thinks, and inside his head the words come out in the gruff, deep voice of a secret agent, _He’s seen too much._

Matches returns to Joker giggling.  “Don’t laugh too hard,” Matches admonishes quietly, handing over a tall glass of… something that looks almost neon in the light.  Electric blue, and cold to the touch, in a tall cocktail glass. “Everyone knows your laugh, kid, you’ll blow your cover.”

“What is this?” Joker asks, honestly intrigued by the glowing blue drink.

“Taste it; it’s blue raspberry.  You know what it’s called?”

Joker sucks on the straw. The drink is smoothie-thick and goes down easy, the alcohol handily camouflaged by the thick sweetness of the syrup. It’s like someone put rum in a blue Slurpee. “Let me guess,” he licks his lips, “The Mr. Freeze.”

Matches laughs. “Bingo.”

“That’s not really a difficult guessing game; every bar in Gotham has a cocktail named for him. Why is that?”

“’Cause he’s got an easy theme to match.”

Joker’s voice jumps into a whine, “I’ve got an easy theme to match! What about me?”

“You scare ‘em too much.” At that, Matches pulls out the chair across from Joker’s seat at the booth, leaning far over the table as he sits and setting his scotch tumbler down. “I wanna bring you over there to meet some of my old friends. Show you off a bit. But first, uh. I got somethin’ else for you.”

“You did?”

“Yeah, I-” Matches voice cuts off, and he doesn’t say what he was about to say, smiling tightly instead. “Just hold out your hand.”

The lights on the dance floor swoosh in a way that sends the beams toward the ceiling, and it looks like searchlights in the background behind Matches, like Matches himself is some sort of red-carpet event.  The music thumps and makes Joker’s throat vibrate. One hand resting against the icy cool of the cocktail glass, Joker offers Matches his other hand, with a limp wrist, as one does wearing a dress.

Gently, Matches affixes something to Joker’s wrist.  Something delicate, with green and purple stones.  And suddenly it’s like at least 70% of Joker’s feelings of revulsion have _wooshed_ away in a cool arctic breeze. “You didn’t.”

Matches smiles, uncharacteristically bashful, “I – I did.”

“Matches Malone, you sticky-fingered son of a gun.  Wow.”  He lets go of the glass to touch the bracelet in admiration, then he leans forward and slurps on the straw of the drink hands-free. The thing is… the bracelet is _beautiful._ The stones are all genuine, and the silver is real, and while the dim lighting isn’t doing any favors for either of those features, the delicate structure of it, the thin, loose band with the easy on (easy off) clasp looks so _fancy_ on Joker’s wrist. It’s almost weightless. (No surprise it was easy to steal). “How’d you do it?”

Matches shrugs, sips his scotch. “You tripped and she caught you, so I stuck around and shook her hand to thank her.  But you were busy stompin’ off.  She was distracted by you. Wasn’t hard.”

Joker thumbs the clasp and slurps again on the straw in wonder.  “Poor bastard must have paid a fortune for this.”

“Tradition says he spent two month’s salary. We could pawn it for cash, if you’d prefer. I know a guy.”

“How dare you even suggest such a thing,” Joker says in mock-outrage. “I’m wearing this to my grave.”

Matches smiles. “I’m glad you like it.”

“Like it? I more than like it. It was _meant_ for me.” And yet Joker keeps thinking of the Weather Lady’s face, and… and, somewhere underneath the multiple layers of Malone’s fancy suit, Joker thinks of the smiley-face scar on the side of his torso. Batman. “Still,” Joker says, coyly, “I can’t believe _you_ would-”

“It looks better on you, anyway,” Matches interrupts.

That girl is probably bawling outside the Iceberg Lounge, _I was just wearing it, it was just here, what could have happened to it, it’s gone, oh my God, how can I be your wife if I lost my bracelet two seconds after you gave it to me, I’m useless, I can’t..._ Her fiancé trying desperately to console her, _Baby it’s okay, it’s okay, the bracelet doesn’t matter you’re going to be a beautiful wife, oh sweetheart, we’ll get you a new one, I’ll get you a new one…_ even though he knows full well he can’t afford it. He’ll have to take out a loan. Will their engagement even last?

And Joker doesn’t care, he doesn’t feel guilty for their suffering.  Wouldn’t that be hypocrisy, if he didn’t feel guilty for so many murders but petty theft makes him seek absolution? No, that’s not the problem here.

The problem is that Matches did it.  And it’s the first time Joker has actually _seen_ Matches commit a crime.  And unlike his usual fire insurance schemes, this is a crime with _victims,_ and it’s something Matches did out of pure spite. He took the bracelet because he wanted it, damn the consequences.

Matches downs the scotch and grabs a matchstick from his pocket, settles it familiarly between his lips. “C’mon,” He finally says, taking Joker’s hand and standing from his chair. “Let’s go to the pound.”

 

Joker is starting to regret the shortness of the dress.

It’s a sleeveless little number with thick fabric. The inner layer is satin and hugs tightly to Joker’s torso, the outer layer is coarse, deep purple fabric that is stitched in careful folds to accentuate otherwise non-existent curves. Below the right breast is a triangle-shaped section that would, in another dress, be a cut-out to show off the skin of his side.  In this dress, there is no cut-out, but instead a field of chunky purple and silver rhinestones of various shapes and hues.  The triangle shape gives the illusion of hips below. Makes it looks like a bodice or corset. And the asymmetry of its placement on only the right side makes the whole dress more fashionable and sleek.

It only comes down to the middle of his thighs, at least six inches above his knees, maybe higher.

Malone’s friends wolf-whistle in greeting.  As Malone cajoles the guys into sliding out of the booth to give the new arrivals the corner seat, Joker pulls the straw out of his Mr. Freeze and downs the rest in one go; he isn’t eager to bring such a colorful drink into such a rowdy crowd of ne’er-do-wells, lest he stain the dress.  That wouldn’t be good.

Matches slips into the corner seat and taps the booth to invite Joker to join him. “C’mere.”  Then, as Joker leaves the drink at a different table and crawls along the booth to reach him, Matches tries to introduce the others by name. Joker was listening, but then the others started… touching him, as he made his way across. Playful spanks. The nausea is coming back.

The truth is, Joker thinks, as Matches pulls him into his lap like the eye-candy he’s meant to be, Joker doesn’t need to listen to this conversation to know what’s going on. And he doesn’t need to know these men individually, he doesn’t need to look at their faces or try to remember their names. He knows their type. And he’s seen plenty of their compatriots cower on the wrong end of Joker’s machine gun.

They laugh loudly and they smell like tobacco and their palms are always sweaty. They clap Matches on the back like he’s an old friend.  They say things like “So who’s this pretty bird?” and Matches calls Joker “Snow White,” and doesn’t go any further, steering the conversation to business.

The whole club seems to blur and dim as Joker ignores his immediate surroundings. He can feel the heat in his stomach and face from his cocktail, and his attention zeroes in on that sensation, and also his proximity to Matches, so close, perched in the man’s lap like a pet.

Swirls of color as the cyan and purple lights swerve. “This guy ain’t too much for you to handle, sugar?” asks one of the men and Joker shakes his head no but doesn’t answer further. The men laugh.  Joker… drifts.  Feels numb.

He doesn’t like them looking at him, but he likes being looked at.

It’s like he’s on the pole again.

Swing. _Woosh._

“Hey,” Matches murmurs. In the minutes (was it half an hour?) that passed since Joker zoned out, the crowd of men has thinned. They’ve acquired their own drinks, or their own partners on the dance floor, and now Matches and Joker are here with a little more elbow room, even while plenty of mobsters still share their table.

Matches rearranges Joker’s legs so Joker is straddling his lap and the heels are nestled against the booth. The dress rides up.  The remaining men at their table seem to salivate with renewed interest.  “What?” Joker whispers, a little bit irritated at the jostling and uncomfortable movement. Probably doing a nice impression of a toddler woken up after falling asleep on a long car ride.

“Let’s give ‘em a little show.”

“’re you crazy? They still think I’m a woman.”

“They won’t see anything.” Matches plants a kiss on Joker’s shoulder. “Besides, won’t it be fun?”

“Fun?”

“You know, with all these-” Matches clears his throat “- _dirtbags_ watchin’ you squirm all over my hand?”

Malone’s fingers slide up up up Joker’s thigh again and _yes,_ yes, oh yes Joker wants this. It doesn’t hurt that he stopped paying attention to their surroundings long ago. He just wants Malone’s hand to keep doing what it’s doing, touching him, touching him through satin between his legs and cupping him and these insistent, hidden touches that are somehow ten thousand times more intense with the thumping subwoofer and the many many eyes as backdrop.

Joker’s breath comes quicker and he cants his hips, riding Malone’s fingers and arching his spine. He can hear the men stop breathing as they watch.  They can only see Joker’s backside – the dress tight against his form, they can see every movement in silhouette, and, if they listen closely, they can hear every whine that escapes.

“Make me come,” Joker demands against Malone’s ear, barely even a whisper, only for Malone to hear.

“In front of all these people?” Malone whispers back, “That would be quite the showstopper-” but his voice cuts off into a gasp when Joker’s teeth lack onto his earlobe, brutal and sincere in his resentful arousal.

So they move together, Joker’s promiscuity exposed for all to witness, quiet moans and whines less obvious than the full-body movements they accompany.  He is blind to anything else but the sensation of Matches beneath him.  He is putting on a show. Let them look.

(Before he can come, the manager of the club comes over and asks them to leave or he’ll call the police for indecent exposure.  Joker thinks to himself, bitterly, that _technically_ he wasn’t exposed, but Matches doesn’t argue with the man, instead giving a grin and a farewell to his mob friends and shaking their hands with the same hand he’d just been using to toy with Joker’s balls. He leads Joker out of the club with a firm, possessive hand on his shoulder and the only thing that feels real about the whole experience is the cool metal hanging around Joker’s wrist.)

 

Matches doesn’t spend the whole cab ride home calling Joker a slut over and over and over again, but somehow that’s what Joker hears.

In fact, Matches doesn’t say anything.  He tucks Joker against his body and has his arms wrapped around him the whole ride, and he touches the bracelet, and he doesn’t say anything but these contented humming noises against Joker’s fake auburn hair.

But this is the third cab ride, and thanks to the familiar atmosphere that had formed checkpoints in Joker’s memory this evening, suddenly the whole day is coming back to Joker like a big wave of thoughts and feelings for him to parse and re-experience.

Like he remembers when they first left the house and Matches carried him and he didn’t get the chance to practice walking in heels. And he remembers the lobster and the salmon and the way Matches wasn’t listening and the way Matches treated him like a child. And he remembers the way Matches was _right_ about the lobster and oh god the Crawfish memory was a lie? And how Matches can never know that he was right about the lobster because _I told you so._ And he remembers Devil Devil and _Swoosh swoosh_ and Mr. Freeze.  And he remembers Matches giving him the stolen bracelet and all the men who watched Joker with their many many eyes.  And he remembers dissociating in the club and coming back to the surface to find that Matches had a hand up his skirt.

So Matches doesn’t spend the whole cab ride home calling Joker a slut, but somehow that’s what Joker hears.  And it’s not even like he hears Matches saying the word in a malicious tone. No, it’s this _enthusiastic degradation,_ like he thinks Joker _likes_ to feel worthless.

Joker’s throat is closing up. At first he worries that it’s the lobster again but then he realizes it’s something different. And his lower lip is trembling. He stomps on the floor of the cab with his high heel shoe. “Why does it always end up like this?”  His fingers form fists. “Why does it always – I just want to have a good time with you! I just… want to have a good time, why does it always…”

“Shhh shh shh…” Matches soothes, “What are you talking about?”

Joker covers his face with his hands. The bracelet slips further up his arm. “O Matches, Matches…” he says in a trembling voice, chuckling to himself even as he tries to hold back the tears, “wherefore art thou Matches…”

The cab pulls to a stop in front of their building. “C’mon,” urges Matches as he gets out himself and then offers a hand to Joker. “Let’s go upstairs, baby girl, I’ll make it all better.”

 

The whole matter of climbing the stairs takes place as Joker is still rubbing his eyes and trying to get the sadness out, and it’s like no time has passed at all, when they open the door and Matches shuts it behind him and then Joker’s shoulders slam against the back of the shut door and Matches is kissing him.

(Later, Joker will think back over this and realize that, from Malone’s perspective, he’s just trying to continue where they left off at the club.  How was he supposed to know it would all fall apart?)

There’s nowhere to go. Joker kisses him back and tries to absorb the other man’s enthusiasm through osmosis. It doesn’t work. Since he can’t breathe, he tries to just inhale the kiss. It doesn’t work. So he tries to kiss back as hard as he can manage, like maybe that will fix things. It doesn’t _work._

But then Matches is trying to pull down the satin panties Joker is wearing under the dress. His fingers feel too big and clumsy against Joker’s hips where they grip the thin, lacey fabric.  He pulls them down inches and inches until they are no longer covering Joker and… Joker has never felt so naked in his whole life. The kissing continues, and then Matches is whispering things. “They’ll never know,” he breathes against Joker’s mouth, “how hot you get knowing they’re looking at you.”

It isn’t until Matches has managed to get the panties down to Joker’s knees (so thin and pretty and delicate and useless and vulnerable) that Joker finally manages to choke out “Stop!” It feels like he was too slow. He wanted to say it as soon as the kissing began but he couldn’t make his mouth work and he’s shaking.

Matches is watching him, surprised and wary, and he lets go.  “What’s wrong?” he asks, as he backs out of the entry way and Joker rushes past him into the open space of the room, struggling to pull up the panties as he goes. They roll against his skin rather than pull up smoothly. He nearly trips and Matches is watching him waddle and pull up his underwear like a-

There’s nowhere to _go._ Because even in the open space of the room, Joker can see ghosts of every one of the last thirty days he’s spent here. He can see Matches. He can see the times they had sex. The ghosts crowd around him like little shards of trauma clogging up his throat. 

He rips off the wig and cap.  Then, seated at the edge of the bed, he tugs and tugs at the buckles of the high heels to make them come off, even as tears begin streaming hot down his cheeks, even as Matches stands off to the side, his presence a threat, like he’ll approach any second. _Don’t come closer, don’t come closer_. The bracelet hangs low around Joker’s wrist as he finally gets one shoe off and throws it blindly in the direction of the closet. The next one comes off after more insistent tugging.

Tugging, tugging, like tugging the legs off of the lobster body. Something clicks in Joker’s head.  His lip is trembling and his whole face is wet, but he wipes his eyes and stares at the floor for a moment allowing the thought to take shape.  If Matches is saying something, Joker can’t hear it, because now he’s thinking:

He had been so sure that he knew who he was. He had been so sure that the crawfish memory was real, even though following through with that hypothesis would have hurt him.  And Matches seems so sure that he should be Matches, or that he knows who Matches is, but maybe he doesn’t. Maybe he thinks he knows what’s right but he doesn’t, and he doesn’t know how much it hurts, how much it _hurts._

“Th-this isn’t you,” Joker says, sniffling.  “This isn’t who you are.”

Matches groans and tilts his chin toward the ceiling. “Not this again.”

Joker’s whole body tenses and he stands up off the bed again, barefoot and raw. _“O Matches, Matches! wherefore art thou Matches?”_ he says again, grimacing, giggling, and desperate.

“I’m right here.”

Joker snarls. “You know perfectly well that ‘wherefore’ means why!” He jabs a finger at the man. _“Why_ are you Matches?!” and then, almost pleading, “ _’Tis but your name that is my enemy_.”

Calmly and with a touch of frustration Matches asks, “What did I do to upset you?”

“What did you do?!” Joker cries, “You- you _humiliate_ me, you t-treat me like a _child!_  And… and that woman, you stole her bracelet on the day of her _engagement!”_

“You wanted the bracelet.”

“That’s not the point!” he shrieks, “It’s not something you should do! That’s not who you are.”

Matches steps forward, and the room sways, and the claustrophobia sets under Joker’s skin again like fire. “Kid,” he says gently, “I’m Matches Malone, and if my boy wants something, I’m going to get it for him.”

Joker shivers and pushes Malone’s hand away, stepping backwards, trembling.

First, “I’m not your boy,” and then, with a deep breath, he finally chokes out, “I always thought that I wanted Batman to join the dark side, to be more like me. And I thought that’s what this was, but.  But you didn’t become more like me. You became more like… _them.”_  His arm shakily sweeps out, as if to refer to the whole of Gotham around them. His voice breaks, “And I want you to love me, I really do _._ But… but…”

Matches watches him, emotionless, impenetrable.

“But Matches Malone is _disgusting!”_ Joker shouts, and his voice is hoarse, and he adds, quieter, like a private confession, “And he makes me feel disgusting too.”

Joker’s breath is coming too fast, and Malone’s eyes are hard, and the lights are still off in the apartment. The rest is a blur. All that registers to Joker is the feeling of collapsing onto the bed in hyperventilating anguish, and, in the periphery of the room, the sound of the front door slamming shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please don't forget to comment with your thoughts, it really means a lot to me!
> 
> Thanks again to [DracoMaleficium](http://archiveofourown.org/users/DracoMaleficium/pseuds/DracoMaleficium) for proofreading! And thanks to everyone who read and commented on the first chapter!


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